


Collection

by dont_sit_under_the_apple_tree



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Gen, I guess it's a pair, Work In Progress, but there are brain bits, if you look close enough - Freeform, not really graphic violence per se
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-07-12 22:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7126105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dont_sit_under_the_apple_tree/pseuds/dont_sit_under_the_apple_tree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of the stuff I write. It's not really edited, since this isn't like, my magnum opus or anything. There might be pairings, there might be violence, I'm not really sure at all. I'll update that area of things as I go. </p><p>All that being said, it is all gonna be TF2. I want to keep my fandoms as separate as possible for organization purposes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Horse With No Name (Sniper)

A Horse with No Name

Golden caramel whisky swirls lazily in the glass. Dark eyes watch the liquid catch the sunlight streaming through the door behind him.  
The man is alone in the bar. He has never had company besides those he has on occasion dragged along when his intent was not to be able to drive. This town was an old mining town. It has since lost its citizens, and the man marvels at how the alcohol is always stocked. He figures it’s the Company. Cruel though they may be, at least they don’t begrudge their employees a vice or two.  
“Or three,” the man says to himself, taking a swig of his whisky. That damned spook had probably never seen the inside of a confessional in his life.  
He watches the shadows grow long and pours himself another shot. Maybe he should have grabbed the truckie. He was always good company, if a little dour from time to time. But no. The man was always tinkering with some new invention or other. It would have been downright improper to interrupt him.  
As night falls, Sniper stands and stretches. The air hasn’t cooled significantly yet, but he knows that if he wants to get back to the base without freezing to death, he’d have to hurry. The desert had a way about it that charmed him. Burning sand and scalding sun during the day, freezing winds at night. Such a moody woman. He smiles, casting his gaze over the ghost town’s run-down buildings. People used to live here, used to go about their days here. Now, it was the site of regular fights in a pointless war.   
Not poetic, but that suits him just fine. He isn’t a poetic man. 

_“I’ve been through the desert on a horse with no name, it felt good to be out of the rain. In the desert you can’t remember your name ‘cause there ain’t no one for to give you no pain.”  
A Horse With No Name (America)_


	2. Leather Gloves (Spy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reflection on a miniscule and unimportant aspect of someone's attire. Not so much a reflection as a description, but hey. Gloves are fun.

The leather has grown soft with years of use. It shifts around that hands that wear it, dark and silent as a tomb. They suit him, these worn and quiet gloves. They hug his fingers, so close, like skin. He takes meticulous care of them, washing blood, sweat, and dirt from the once shiny surface. They have acquired his scent, the smoke slithering in and latching on to what fibres could be found.


	3. Ich bin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bro, the tenses are all over the place in this. I'm actually interested in fixing this short at some point, though, so hopefully those tenses won't be so...unproper? Is that the word I'm looking for?? idk English is weird.

His laugh is cold, distant. He holds himself apart from the rest, viewing himself as a god among men. To him, the teams mean nothing, the carnage is his revelry. He is free to steal and use parts as he sees fit. Once, he kept the sentient head of his enemy in the refrigerator. He has yet to figure out how he managed that one.  
He is laughing again at some cruel joke he made. His smile is wicked and sharp, teeth glinting in the oddly warm firelight. Warmth does not suit this creature, Heavy thinks. This creature is suited to blood, to death, to the cold touch of an operating table.  
The German removes his glasses and wipes at his eyes. He crosses his legs as he replaces the glasses and looks over at Heavy. The Russian is currently his greatest success. Heavy’s heart has a machine that can temporarily make him invincible and now Medic’s goal is to remove the word temporary. Project Ubermensch was nearing completion with every operation, and the prospect excited Medic. Oh, if only Heavy would acknowledge such an achievement. But the Russian cared more about saving than he did ruling. He just didn’t understand the power Medic had bestowed upon him.  
Medic sighs and leans back in his chair, clasping his hands in his lap. Heavy would understand one day. One day, Medic would rule the world, and heavy would be his faithful, indestructible hound.  
Heavy watches as Medic relaxes into his chair, looking thoughtful. This was why Heavy came back time and time again, these quiet moments when Medic shuts down in favour of providing energy to his mind. The doctor was dangerously intelligent, and Heavy supposes this was part of why he is so magnetic. The German had no idea how much control he has over his associate. If he gave a command, Heavy would follow, his fascination in that great mind outweighing logical thought.


	4. Running Scared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a part of my development for the characters of Spy and Sniper in the other story I'm working on. Which will get a second chapter...soon? Maybe? I'm still poking through and editing the chapters I have written of it, since I think I've run into some inconsistencies and maybe left some information too vague or something; I'm not really sure. Anywho, yeah. Pistol-whipping: for all your over-emotional needs. (don't actually hit someone w a pistol tho please it is vv painful)

Sniper’s face. Adrien slowly released the red collar. His heart was pounding and at some point he’d started crying. That alone pissed him off even more. Adrien pushed himself off the body and he careened into the wall behind him, growling in anger. He was not thinking rationally anymore.

How dare this man cause him such a distraction? How dare he draw him from his mission with kind words and coffee? Adrien knelt over and tried his best not to scream. He didn’t understand this, he didn’t know what to do, he didn’t – it had been so long since his emotions took over. He’d be taken off the mission, sent to retraining again, another black mark on his nearly spotless record.

Sniper’s corpse began to slowly fade from view, taking with it the battered brains and skull fragments, taking away the signs of his weakness, at least for a moment. Later, when they met up for the mission, Adrien had no doubt there would be words. He needed to plan for that, if only to preserve his sanity. Was he still sane? Pistol-whipping his co-conspirator to death seemed to suggest otherwise, but…footsteps. There were footsteps heading his direction. He frantically smacked the cloak button on his watch as Sniper reentered, looking around quickly. Looking for him.

“You still in here, Spook? I just wanna talk.”

No he didn’t. You don’t just talk with someone who beat you to death. Adrien knew this, and so he sat silently, watching as Sniper poked around the room. If he didn’t move, he would either be found or run out of cloak. For the second time in so many minutes, Adrien found himself making another emotional choice, deciding to simply put off speaking with the Australian. 

Sniper turned when he heard the sound of a decloak. The BLU spy was huddled against the wall, deadened eyes staring through the hitman. Sniper crouched and slowly approached, hands held out in a placating manner. He was no longer dealing with a man in his mind, but a wounded and scared animal that could – and would – kill him.

“Thought you might stick around. Just wanted to ask a few questions, ‘s’all.”

Spy shook his head, eyebrows clenched. He flinched at a nearby explosion. Sniper folded his legs and stared at Spy, observing. He was obviously not used to his emotions, had obviously acted out of fear. The unintelligible shouting had more than confirmed that, and as painful as having his head bashed in with a gun was, Sniper was not willing to write the act off as a termination of their agreement.

“Spook, please. I just want to make sure you’re doin’ okay in the head. You seem a little…well, spooked.”

“Stop. You do not check on the wellbeing of your partner. It encourages unnecessary emotional outbursts.”

“I’m beginning to think that maybe not checkin’ on you led to an outburst. Again, are you okay?” Spy was beginning to breathe faster; his eyes were widening. Sniper tentatively placed a hand on Spy’s knee. “Do you want to talk about this later and just go back to fighting?” Nod. “Okay, I’m gonna get up and leave now. Just come find me if you change your mind.” Another nod. Sniper stood, looking down at Spy. He considered this man his friend, and thusly he was very worried about him. There was a struggle going on in that conniving mind. He wanted to just…take that struggle from him, get Spy back to a place where he was healthy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have a last name for Adrien anymore, since I realised Roquefort is a type of cheese. A very good type of cheese, don't get me wrong. I just don't think Spy is a wheel of cheese. (Literally, at any rate. Figuratively? Who knows, man. Who knows.)


End file.
